Five Times Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy Never Kissed
by Tobiume
Summary: Several encounters that never happened. Or did they?
1. Year 4

**Five Times Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy Never Kissed**

**Year Four**

Hermione sidles around a rosebush and sits down on the far side, hoping she is far enough away from the entrance hall that no one will find her. She knows Viktor is waiting for her, back at the ball, but she doesn't want to face anyone.

The evening had started so wonderfully. It had taken ages to put up her hair, but the surprise on people's faces, on _Harry's_ face even, when they had recognized her, had made it well worth it. There were more important things than looks, certainly, but a small, well, perhaps not-so-small part of her, had been delighted at the admiring looks she'd received.

Then Ron, who she'd hoped might have asked her to the ball, had to go and spoil everything with his insinuations about Viktor, who had been nothing but gentlemanly, even in spite of his rather unfortunate tendency to go on about Quidditch.

Voices and music float back to her from the castle, and the fairy lights in the garden twinkle cheerfully. Her tears catch and reflect the glimmer, and she wipes her eyes with the edge of her robe. If someone does stumble upon her back here, she doesn't want them to know she's been crying. She tugs at her necklace, dragging the sapphire sunburst back and forth across its chain.

A tear has fallen on her lip and she brushes it away, her hand going to her teeth again. She's still hardly able to believe that they are straight, so perfectly even. Imagining her parents' likely reaction, and how she could explain what had happened to shrink her teeth, she doesn't hear the approaching footsteps until someone sits down beside her. In fact, they nearly sit on top of her.

"_Excuse _me," Hermione begins hotly, "this spot is taken."

"It's big enough for both of us, isn't it? You're crying, I'm hiding, let's just carry on and ignore each other." Pale hair gleams in the dark, and the boy's voice is familiar, but she can't quite place it.

"I'm not _crying_," Hermione snaps. "I'm thinking." It's true. She hasn't been crying for at least four minutes.

"Well, keep thinking, then." He snorts. "What a wretched crush. I hate parties. Still, my father wanted me to show my face. Say, what house are you in? I wouldn't want to be sitting here with a Gryffindor." He nearly spits the last word, and Hermione knows instantly who she's sitting with.

She doesn't know what possesses her to lie, but she says, without stopping to think, "Ravenclaw." Well, it could have been true. She fishes for a name in case he asks, but he accepts the answer and seems content with anonymity.

Is this what Malfoy is like, when he's not perpetuating decades of hatred, of prejudice? He's smart, she knows that much. In a different world they could have been friendly rivals. Maybe something more. But this is not that world. She knows she should get up and leave, but something keeps her on the ground, next to him, so close that the fabric of her blue robe brushes against his leg. Perhaps it's the fact that when he's not sneering in her direction, taunting Ron, or casting black looks at Harry, he's quite handsome. He didn't recognize her when she entered the ball with Viktor, and he doesn't seem to know who she is now, either. The part of her that ever hungers for knowledge is curious to see how this plays out.

"Who are you hiding from?" She asks, trying to pitch her voice a little lower. Malfoy's really only heard her speak in class, although she doubts he often listens to her occasionally breathless answers.

"My date." He sighs gustily. "All she wants to do is dance, or pull me into dark corners and snog. I just wanted to sit and think." He falls silent again. Nearly a minute passes before he seems to remember he isn't alone. "How about you?"

"Oh," Hermione begins, unsure of what she can say without giving herself away. She finally decides on "My friend and my date got into an argument."

"Didn't you come in with Krum? He looks too thick to string three words together, let alone get into an argument."

Hermione is astounded at his perception. In the dark he has recognized her, albeit not as herself. She is pleased that her transformation was so complete, but also angry, angry that Hermione Granger means so little to Draco Malfoy that without the context of the classroom, she is just another student.

She gathers the skirt of her robe to stand, to storm away, then she hears something fall to the ground. Her hand flies to her throat, but her necklace is gone.

"Oh, no," she says, crouching back down, her hands patting the grass.

"Have you lost something?"

"My necklace, it fell to the ground just now. My mother gave it to me, I've got to find it."

He watches her, and eventually pulls out his wand, muttering "Lumos."

"Thank you. I didn't bring mine."

"What kind of witch are you?"

"It didn't fit in the dress," she retorts, but she knows he's right. She should have brought it. Hogwarts is safe enough from Death Eaters, but there are other dangers. What if Malfoy _had_ recognized her, and tried to curse her? Realizing her foolishness, she wonders if she's given herself away as a Muggle-born. But she doesn't have time to consider, because Malfoy suddenly ducks his head and snatches something off the ground.

"Is this it?" He holds out his hand and Hermione takes her necklace, noting that his palm is cool and very dry. She sees that his fingers are very long and wonders why she finds that interesting. Then his wand light goes out and his face is suddenly right in front of hers and those same fingers she was just admiring are curving around her neck and lips, Malfoy's lips, are against hers and he is kissing her. She can't explain why but she opens her mouth and his tongue touches hers and she is hot and cold at once, shivering at the heat that rushes through her limbs. Hermione is being kissed for the first time and it is Draco Malfoy, who is a Slytherin, unkind, outright cruel, the child of known supporters of You-Know-Who, who hates everything she is, and he is kissing her and she is kissing him back.

His hands curl around her neck and lightly he trails a finger down to her shoulder and then suddenly he wrenches his mouth away and his wand is at her throat. Her heart is racing and she can do nothing but blink helplessly, hand at her lips. She thinks she might cry again.

"I expected better of you, Granger. If I wanted to curse you, you'd be helpless, with no one to hear you scream." His voice is cold and she can't believe that her lips are still warm from his.

Then he pulls his wand back and stands. Hermione stays on the ground, on her knees, dusty robes pooling around her feet, which prick with pins-and-needles. Her eyes burn and she can't tell whether she's crying with fear, anger, disappointment, or relief. She supposes she isn't out of danger yet; he could always turn around and hex her.

When he does lean back down, her heart nearly stops. She can't remember when she's last been this afraid. He had to have known it was her when he kissed her, and his complete about-face of emotions is terrifying.

"Your teeth are much improved, Granger. One could almost say you were pretty."

Then Draco Malfoy strides away into the evening, leaving her frozen behind the rosebush. The fairy lights sparkle on behind her, dancing to the tune of the merriment from the ball.


	2. Year 5

AN: Thank you to Harmonic Friction for beta-reading, general advice, and some stellar Umbridge dialogue.

**Year Five**

"It's Umbridge," Ron hisses, ducking back out of the door to the dungeon.

"Umbridge? Is she evaluating Professor Snape again?" Hermione is surprised, and her eyes drop quickly to Harry's hand. The less time he spends around that foul woman, the better.

"No, Snape's not there… Maybe he's been sacked." Hermione rolls her eyes, as Ron knows this is highly improbable, and certainly his voice is not very hopeful.

"Let's go," Harry says, and for one wild second, in which her palms sweat at the prospect of skipping class, Hermione is about to follow him off down the hall. But then she realizes that he is walking _into_ the dungeon. Ron casts one bleak glance back at Hermione, and then they follow him in.

Ten minutes later, Hermione is certain that Harry and Ron both regret their decision. Half the class is still stunned from Umbridge's announcemnt, and most of the other half is staring smugly at their partners, no doubt thinking of the best way to hex them surreptitiously under the table. They are supposed to be making an Invigoration Draught, according to Snape's notes, which Umbridge has helped herself to, with a loud, "Why, what dreadful handwriting…" But instead of letting them work with their usual partners, she has assigned each Gryffindor to work with a Slytherin student.

"And for Miss Granger, let's see," Umbridge says, her sweet tone making Hermione's stomach churn, "how about Mr. Malfoy?"

"Professor!" They both call out in perfectly unified outrage. Umbridge wags a finger at them. "Now, now. Mr. Malfoy, I'm sure that with your Potions skills, you'd be an asset to other students, but the truth of the matter is that Miss Granger needs a grounding presence, someone to speak logically against her arrogance."

Hermione bristles. If anyone's arrogant, it's Malfoy, but saying as much, saying anything at all, would likely get her a detention, so she says nothing.

Malfoy grumbles, but he doesn't argue, likely because he can't resort to his usual "My father will hear of this." Hermione looks at Malfoy as directly as she can without turning her head. Their eyes meet briefly, and although she can't read his expression from across the room, it isn't filled with his usual hate. She wonders if he's thinking of the rosebush outside the Yule Ball. This will be the first time they've been in close proximity to each other, since. Her heart is racing, and she tells herself it's because she's afraid of him.

No one has moved, and Umbridge clears her throat. "Well, boys and girls, shall we begin?" Students begin to get up, although the Slytherins are markedly slow to rise. Hermione is surprised when Malfoy is the first to cross the room.

"At least you're not Weasley," is his greeting. He sneers at Ron, who seethes, but can't react in class. Then he is businesslike, separating ingredients from his kit, sending Hermione to fetch things from the cupboard. She does what he asks without protest. Focused on his work, he seems to have forgotten to be nasty. This intrigues her.

Potions class has never been so quiet, she reflects as she chops bark. There is the occasional muttered instruction or question, but for the most part, the classroom is heavy with sullen silence. The potion is easy enough, although there are quite a few ingredients that need shredding or chopping, and the lack of communication between partners won't endanger anyone. Probably. She hopes that no one, whether in miscommunication or outright spite, adds an ingredient to their cauldron that will create poisonous fumes or send the classroom up in flames.

Malfoy is good at this, Hermione notices, as her eyes stray from her work. His knife hand is deft, and he knows just when to add each ingredient. He's the first Potions partner she's had who seems to actually care about the potion. She only realizes that she's staring when he turns his head just long enough to raise an eyebrow in her direction. Her face warms, but she meets his gaze and then looks past him to pretend she was checking the clock.

"I'm sure you're working very hard, boys and girls, but those of you who have not completed the Invigoration Draught by the end of class will remain after and finish." Umbridge's announcement is met with a sudden flurry of activity.

Hermione doesn't rush. They are perfectly on schedule. While the Draught is brewing, Malfoy flips through his Potions book, and Hermione re-reads a chapter in her Ancient Runes textbook. They say nothing to one another, but their silence, although not quite comfortable, is not unpleasant. Hermione turns a page and, looking up, sees Harry looking at her. They trade mute expressions of horror, although Hermione feels a pang of guilt that hers is mostly exaggerated. Thus far, she has not minded working with Malfoy.

There are two ingredients left to add. Hermione reaches for her bottle of Honeywater at the same time that Malfoy does. Their hands brush, and he jerks away, knocking over the tray of roots that Hermione has spent twenty minutes carefully chopping. It clatters to the floor and, so quickly that Hermione barely registers what's happening, Malfoy flicks his wand and mutters something. The roots disappear. Hermione looks at Malfoy in disbelief. His eyes are wide and unblinking, daring her to say something.

He wants her to react, so she doesn't. She kneels, picking up the tray, selects a new root from her kit and begins chopping again, angrily, as around them students begin taking up vials of potion. What is Malfoy doing? Why would he vanish the roots? He has to stay after, too, unless he thinks Umbridge will favor him and make Hermione finish the potion alone.

Perhaps this is what he thinks, since he makes no move to help her, even when everyone else is finished and class is dismissed. Umbridge grants Malfoy a saccharine smile. "I'm sure I can trust you to assist Miss Granger in finishing the potion."

"Of course, Professor," Malfoy says, his tone fawning. Hermione grits her teeth. Umbridge leaves, presumably to teach the sham that DADA has become. Something needs to be done about that, but she can't think about it now. She adds the Honeywater, counting drops quickly, and scrapes the roots into the cauldron, stirring it and quickly decanting it into a vial. Hopefully the potion hasn't sat too long.

"It better not be ruined," Malfoy has the nerve to say, and without pausing in stirring the potion, without stopping to consider the possible ramifications of her actions, Hermione lifts her foot and brings it down on Malfoy's, hard.

"OW," he shouts, stepping back. "How dare you-" he begins, but Hermione cuts him off.

"How dare _you,_" she hisses. "What possible reason could you have had for Vanishing the roots? Didn't you realize you'd have to stay after, too?"

She is pleased to see that when he takes a step forward, he favors the foot she stomped on. Her hand goes to her wand, and he smirks as he notices. "I don't know what you want, Malfoy, but you won't catch me off guard again." And there it is, a reference to the Yule Ball, hanging in the air between them. She hasn't kissed anyone since and wonders if Malfoy has.

"Afraid, Granger? You should be."

"I'm not afraid of you," she lies. She is afraid of what he is.

Malfoy moves closer, but Hermione stays where she is. She will not run from him.

"You're a Mudblood," he says, conversationally. "You don't belong here. Your presence contaminates this school."

"Then why am I first in every class? You're jealous, Malfoy, is that it? Even in Potions, I'm better than you." His jaw tightens, she notes in satisfaction.  
She turns back to the potion, but he grabs her shoulder and pulls her back around.

"This is wrong," he says, and kisses her.

Hermione bites his lip, but she doesn't pull away. She doesn't want to. There have been too many nights where she has lain awake, remembering every detail of those fifteen minutes behind the rosebush. If she analyzes the memory, studies it, refreshes it often, it will remain in her memory, like any other piece of knowledge she acquires.

His hands curve around her neck again, and she tenses, tightening her grip on her wand, but this time is different. He edges her forward, until her back is against the table, and she can feel the cold stone through her robes. She feels something else, too, at her front, where his hips press into hers, and she is both amused and pleased. He is aroused by her, and this gives her power.

Malfoy's hands move to her waist, and there is an odd intimacy about the placement of his hands that unsettles her. Her blood is hot in her veins and although she would never say this aloud and is afraid to even think it, she wants to keep kissing him. She wants his hands on her. Involuntarily her hips twitch against his and she feels, rather than hears, his slight moan against her mouth.

With that admittance of his desire, he stiffens and pulls back. They stare at each other, both breathing heavily. She needs a book to rationalize this, preferably one with a chapter entitled "What to do When You've Just Snogged Your Mortal Enemy."

"You want me," she taunts him, but then wonders if she's gone too far. His face twists angrily, and he is suddenly cruel again.

"What would I want with Potter and Weasley's leavings?"

She hurtles forward, wand in hand, not sure if she's going to slap him or curse him, but instead, halfway not knowing what she's doing, she is pulling his face down to hers and there is no space between them and she almost forgets to breathe. In his eagerness to return her kiss, he bites her tongue, but she doesn't care, even if he did it on purpose.

His hands on her back say things far different from the insults he's voiced. They move around her sides and up, and her skin tingles where his hands have been. The place between her legs is warm, and she wonders if he'll try to touch her, and what she will do if he does.

When his hand is at her waist and the tips of his fingers are sliding under her shirt, her breath hitches in her throat. Hermione doesn't know what she wants to happen anymore, and she doesn't know how much more of this game she can take, but still, she wants to see how far it will go. But then his fingers touch the skin of her stomach, and he suddenly stops, pulls his hand back, and pushes her away, roughly. Her wand is out, and before she can think she curses him. Fat, awful boils spread across his forehead. He reaches up to touch them gingerly, snarls an incomprehensible oath, and storms from the dungeon.

Hermione rests her head on the tabletop, places her palms flat against the chill stone. She's suddenly too warm.


	3. Year 6

**Year 6**

Granger is in the library. She's sitting a few tables away, and Draco can't see her, but her presence is making it hard for him to concentrate on his Transfiguration essay. He's got other things on his mind, too, darker thoughts and plots that make his homework seem trivial, but while he's still a student here, he has to hand in his work.

Draco can't fool himself with his hatred anymore. He feels guilty, disloyal, when, at night, he remembers the two times they've kissed and grows hard, thinking of her small, warm mouth and her hips moving briefly against him. Although he is working to eradicate Granger's kind, with their foul, tainted blood, from his world, he still cannot stop thinking about her, and this frightens him.

When he passed her earlier, he saw that her eyes were red. She didn't look up from her book as he walked by, but he heard her suck in her breath, and knew that she'd noticed him. She's refused to return his gaze since Potions class last year and turns away instantly whenever their eyes accidentally meet, whether over meals, in class, or when they pass in the halls. He was angry when she hexed him, for a few minutes. It took him a long time to realize what the peculiar emotion that overcame his anger was, but finally he decided that he was rather impressed with her. He'll never tell her, of course.

Draco supposes she's been fighting with Weasley. The trio has not been much of a trio these days, as Weasley's been wrapped around Lavender Brown in what seems like every corner of the castle. When Draco bothers to think about it, he supposes he's always assumed Weasley and Granger would date: the Mudblood and the Muggle-loving blood traitor, a perfect pair. But lately, the thought of them together makes his throat tighten uncomfortably, and he's happy seeing Granger alone in the library, even though she's obviously been crying. Or maybe he's happy because she's been crying. He doesn't know anymore.

He forces himself to look back down at his parchment, deciding that he will finish a paragraph before he looks up again. When he does look up, the Weasley girl is sitting with Hermione. They are talking quietly, but then Weasley slams a book shut. "It's not your fault my brother's a-" she says in rather a loud voice.

Granger shushes her and pulls her back down into the chair as Madame Pince lurches around the corner to seek out the noisemaker.

Draco strains his ears to hear what they are saying. He hears Granger mumble something about asking McLaggen to some party. It must be Slughorn's party. He doesn't care about parties, but it's infuriating that he, a Malfoy, has not been invited to an exclusive event, when he is one of the most important people at this school. One of the richest, certainly. And Potter was only invited because of his parents, his poor, dead parents. It's not like he has any real skills to speak of. His Quidditch is just luck. And McLaggen? That lout?

But why does he care who she takes to the party? He supposes for the same reason he purposely takes the longer route through the Potions classroom, past her desk, in the hope of unsettling her, of making her react, of catching the particular fragrance of her hair, which is fresh like the wild grasses that grow on hills… Draco twists his face into a sneer and shakes his head, hoping to redirect his thoughts from the dreadful turn they have taken. When was the last time he was on a hill, anyway?

No, he only wants Granger so that he can have her and then ridicule her, hurt her, show her what her place is. That's what Draco tells himself, and long as he believes it, he is somehow less afraid of himself.

His eyes find their way back to Granger, who is alone again. The library is mostly deserted. Granger has gone back to her studies. Across the aisle two girls are whispering over a textbook, but he doesn't recognize them. He picks up his books and stands, not at all sure about what he means to do until he's pulled out the chair across from Granger and sat down.

She looks up at him, her eyes wide, dark, and unreadable, but she says nothing.

"I hear you haven't got a date for Slughorn's party," he says. "But you and the pathetic Weasel make such a perfect couple. Finally thrown you over, has he?"

"At least I was invited." She closes her book and puts it in her bag. "What's the matter, Malfoy? Does it infuriate you to know that a Mudblood's beaten you again?"

"You haven't beaten me, Granger," Draco snaps back. "It's just that Slughorn hasn't recognized my particular talents."

Granger laughs. He should be angry, but he isn't. "And what talents are those?"

He leers. She rolls her eyes and stands.

"No, wait," escapes from his mouth, although he has no idea what he's going to say next.

"What is it, Malfoy?" She doesn't sit, but she doesn't leave.

For a moment, he just looks at her, thinking about the way her body felt pressed against his. It's been so long that he shouldn't be able to remember, but he's thought about it often enough that it could have been last week. He wonders how she looks with her clothes off, and if he'll ever get to find out. The thought of Granger naked excites him, and he's disgusted with himself.

She knows he's staring at her, and she shifts on her feet. Her face is pink, but she meets his eyes. Granger is bold, and Draco likes this. He wonders if she's kissed Weasley, or Potter. Likely not Potter. Suddenly he wants to know, badly, how he compares. He needs to know if she thinks of him. Draco realizes that she's said something. "What?"

"If you weren't so busy staring, you might have heard," Granger says. Her voice isn't sharp, and he hears the laughter in it. From exchanges he's overheard, he recognizes the way she speaks to her friends. He isn't her friend, but has her opinion of him changed, somewhat? "I said, I'm sorry I hexed you." There is embarrassment, and uncertainty, in her voice.

He remembers that he pushed her away when his fingers touched her skin. The skin of her stomach was soft and warm, and he'd wanted to reach higher, and then slide his fingers down lower, below her waist, inside her. But then he'd realized what he was doing, and who he was doing it with, and suddenly panicked. This is wrong, he'd thought, not for the first time. I can't do it. What would his mother say? What would his _father_ say?

"I'll forgive you," he says rashly, "If you don't go to Slughorn's party."

"What makes you think I want your forgiveness? Why shouldn't I go to the party?" She's bluffing, he knows. Her eyes are interested, and if she didn't care what he thought, she wouldn't have bothered to apologize. He tells her as much and is pleased to see her flush.

"Just meet me outside the Room of Requirement that night instead," he tells her. "8:00."

Granger looks at him steadily. "Why?"

"Why haven't you left yet?" he counters. "Why didn't you leave Potions class earlier, last year?"

"Why did you kiss me?" She demands in a whisper, her eyes darting across the room, making sure there's no one to overhear.

He smirks, and she tosses her wild hair and turns to leave. This time he lets her. Will she come? He has nearly a week to wait.

He arrives early, sneaking down the halls, which are mostly deserted. She isn't there. I will not pace, he tells himself. What do I care if she doesn't come? _This is wrong_, a small voice whispers in his head. He knows that, but doesn't care. He is too busy thinking of her small hands and wondering what they'd feel like on him. Finally she creeps round the corner, seven minutes late.

She doesn't apologize, doesn't say anything, just looks at him and waits. She's wearing a dark green dress. It's very clingy and the straps that hold it up are thin. Why green, of all colors, he wonders, then remembers that it's Christmassy, and that the Slytherins do not have the exclusive use of the color, although maybe they should. But she looks good in green. He wants to slide the straps from her shoulders and bite the skin they cover, wants to leave marks so she remembers him the next day, and the next.

Finally, she breaks the silence. "Well?"

He looks at the door, but it doesn't open. "What do we want?"

They look at each other and then suddenly they are both laughing. Her laughter is high-pitched and giddy. She's nervous, he realizes, and his heart beats rapidly. He decides that she must want him, as much as he wants her. Why else would she have dressed up, would she be here with him, instead of with her friends?

He knows, despite his earlier bravado, that he won't hurt her. It would be so easy. She's here, alone. Although she is, of course, a capable witch, "_the best in their year_", Draco thinks mockingly, he is stronger than she is. He doesn't want to hurt her, not anymore, at least not right now, but the knowledge that he could, that she knows it and has come anyway, makes his blood burn through him and his thoughts spin until all he can think of are his lips on hers, his fingers around her wrists, her hair curling against his neck as he thrusts into her.

He bites the inside of his lip as he swallows. It is suddenly very hard to breathe.

Granger looks at the wall, then back at him. They look at it together and a door unfurls from the wall. He opens it, holds it, waves her in, and follows.

When they see the room, they laugh again. It's the Potions classroom, or very like it. The desks are empty, the chairs pushed in.

Being alone with Granger makes Draco bold. "I want you on all of these," he says, waving his hand expansively.

"Oh?" She asks, looking up at him with those inscrutable eyes.

Draco's heart thumps as he reaches out and seizes her. This time, she doesn't flinch away, and he picks her up and sets her on the desk, pushing her skirt up around her thighs. He kisses her, roughly, and she moans into his mouth. He feels her twitch and catch her breath as he pushes the straps of the dress off her shoulders and drags his teeth across her bare skin. She breathes quickly, shallowly, as he touches her thigh, just above where the hem of her skirt rests. Boldly, he pushes his hand up higher, completely under her skirt. Her breath is half a moan, and comes out in a rush. He pulls at her underwear, which is smooth under his fingers, and tugs it down to her knees. She kicks it off the rest of the way and, raising her eyes to his, slowly, deliberately, spreads her legs. His erection throbs painfully and he realizes that from this, he can never come back.

Reaching out, slowly, but not so slowly that she can tell anything is wrong, he makes himself touch her. She is warm, and although he isn't quite sure what he's doing, the sounds she makes encourage him. He slides a finger inside her, and then another. She moans, her voice raw, and moves so that his fingers are deeper in her. If he doesn't think about who she is, this would be one of the greatest moments of his life.

He takes his fingers out and moves them up, searching, and when she cries out and catches at his hair, he presses harder, rubbing her between his thumb and forefinger. The noises Granger makes are encouraging, and her legs spread farther apart. His fingers are wet and slide over her, and she wriggles and then eventually reaches down, grabbing his hand and moving his fingers to a different spot. He touches her there, and when her breathing becomes shallow, he takes his hand away. She reaches for it impatiently, but he pulls back.

"Are you stopping?" she hisses. Her cheeks are flushed, her dress disarranged, straps falling from her bare shoulders, and when he leans back towards her, he can smell her. All at once the only thought in his head is that he wants to be inside her, now. "I want to fuck you," he says, into her ear, and she shudders and nods. He fumbles with his clothes and when he's free from them, he is suddenly nervous, although he isn't exactly inexperienced.

Granger slides to the edge, and he pushes against her but meets resistance. He tries again and Granger smirks. "Not there," she says, raising her legs and bracing her heels on the edge of the desk. Her small, soft hands take hold of him, guiding him to the right spot. He shoves into her, hard, wanting to pay her back for laughing at him, but she clutches his shoulders and wraps her legs around him and moves against him as he thrusts into her.

Her hands are on his shoulders, his neck, his sides, and at first the constant movement distracts him, and he slows. "Is that all you've got, Malfoy?" She taunts, and he clutches her hips, half-angrily, and slams into her, irritation warring with his desire and exciting him even more. Granger twitches and moans and sighs, her breath warm on his neck, and he moves faster and faster, until suddenly it's over, and he is panting, leaning against the desk. When his head has cleared somewhat, Draco stands awkwardly, looking at her. He wants to reach between her legs, touch her again, hear her moan into his ear, but at the same moment he reaches to put his hand on her leg, she slides off the desk and stands, picking up her underwear from where they've fallen on the floor, rearranging her clothes.

"I have to go," she says. She looks at him for a long moment, opens her mouth, but closes it again without saying anything. He is struck by a peculiar feeling: he does not want her to leave. But then Granger turns and is gone, and there is nothing for him to do but leave, too.

Later that night, when he is in bed, he wonders which of the pathetic Gryffindors Granger has fucked. Weasley, most likely. No wonder she was crying in the common room when Weasley took up with Brown. Draco isn't jealous: he's sure he was better than Weasley.

He holds his hand to his face, his fingers to his nose, trying to catch the scent of her once more. He wants her again already, he realizes, and closes his eyes, thinking of her soft exhales and her skin against his.


	4. Year 7

**Year Seven**

* * *

A/N: This is for Harmonic Friction, who's great at motivation, inspiration, and just being fantastic.

Feedback is greatly appreciated!

* * *

Hermione stares into her mug so she doesn't have to look at Harry and Ron. They are all ignoring each other. The locket, and their tasks, hang heavily in the air, and she doesn't feel like herself, is sure Harry and Ron don't feel like themselves, either. Ron's temper, especially, is shorter than usual, and Hermione feels guilty because of the enormous secret she's keeping from them. But really, how can one slip "I shagged Draco Malfoy, your greatest enemy" into casual conversation, even a conversation with one's two best friends? Hermione doesn't think she'll ever be able to tell them.

But at least, there will be nothing more to tell. Throughout the upheaval of the last year, events that placed her and Malfoy on either side of a clearly marked line, a line as insurmountable as a stone wall, Hermione exchanged nothing more than a few glances with Malfoy. He didn't insult her, or call her a Mudblood, but he didn't speak to her, either. His face was angry, anguished, and once, when they passed in the hall, she was struck with the sudden urge to pull him into a corridor, kiss him, let him push her up against the wall and shove his fingers between her legs. Neither one of them had been alone, or she might have.

Sipping her tea, Hermione wrinkles her nose. It's gone ice-cold. She sets the cup down and the soft clink seems to shake the other two out of their stupor.

"Where are we heading next?" Ron's voice is sulky, as it nearly always is, these days. "Reckon we could find a hot meal before the end of the week?"

Harry stops fiddling with the locket and lets it fall back around his neck. "I've told you, Ron, why we can't do that," he begins, his voice measured, and suddenly Hermione has had enough. She doesn't want to hear this argument again, so without really considering what she's doing, she stands, removes the charms, and leaves, taking nothing but her wand. Ignoring the protests of Harry and Ron, she recasts the protective charms behind her and steps out into the night.

Hermione hasn't brought the Invisibility Cloak, and knows she has to be careful, but she isn't intending to go far. She just wants, for an hour or even half of one, to be completely alone.

The night is cold, and she shoves her hands into her pockets, wishing she could conjure her bluebell flames, have a hot drink, or even be warm in a bed, her bed, at Hogwarts, with nothing more to worry about than if she had covered everything in her Transfiguration essay, and perhaps she should add another few inches in the morning just to be sure. But that part of her life seems so far away, removed from the unchanging blur of campsite to campsite, cold meager meal to cold meager meal. It's hard on Hermione, too, but she's better at dealing with the misery and constant hunger. It's Ron she can't face right now. Sometimes, when they're sitting at the table, discussing their options, or more accurately, arguing over what to do next, she is struck with the sudden urge to blurt out what she really did the night of Slughorn's party, and has to press her hand over her mouth to keep the words in.

She knows that she hasn't done anything _wrong_, not exactly. But she doubts that Harry and Ron would agree. What's worse is that she can't stop thinking about Malfoy, the spoiled pureblood boy who has only recently shifted from her enemy to something more ambiguous.

Lost in her thoughts, Hermione kicks a stone and bites her lip to keep from crying out. She clutches her foot, leaning against a tree. After a moment, when the pain subsides, she realizes that she can hear footsteps in the distance, crunching through deadfall. She doesn't know exactly where they are, as they've been wandering and camping so continuously, and these days, it's far more likely that the person approaching is not anyone friendly. She listens, and when she determines that the person is, in fact, coming her direction, she creeps behind the tree. It's dark, and if she's quiet, they likely won't see her. They wouldn't be in the forest without business of their own, and hopefully they will pass quickly.

Someone in a dark cloak strides into view, head down. Hermione can't see who it is, at first, but then they turn back and the hood falls back, away from their, from _his_, face. She wants to laugh, or maybe cry, at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. Just as she was thinking about Draco Malfoy, she encounters him wandering through the forest in the middle of the night. Perhaps he's looking for them? They've covered their traces well, and haven't heard anyone nearby in days. But she supposes it's possible they're being tracked.

Malfoy doesn't seem to be looking for anyone, though. He's walking quickly, and in the opposite direction of their camp. He's almost out of sight when Hermione realizes that she doesn't want him to disappear into the night. She wants to know why he's there and what he's in such a hurry to do. Pointing her wand, she whispers a spell, and Malfoy trips and falls, flat on his face. She's decided that if he gets up and walks away, thinking he fell on his own, that she'll let him go. But if he turns back to see who tripped him, she'll own up to it. He seems to be alone, and if he attacks her, she is confident she can best him.  
He gets to his feet, brushes off his robes, and turns. "Who's there?" He hisses, his wand out.

Hermione swallows. Her mouth is very dry, and her heart is pounding. She is suddenly not at all sure of herself anymore, but she steps out from behind the tree, her own wand out. She hopes that Malfoy doesn't notice that her hand is shaking.

"_Granger_? What are _you _doing here? Why aren't you at school?"

Hermione laughs, without humor. "As if they'd allow me in. I'm surprised you don't know… Shouldn't you be elated? Finally, they've stopped letting "all sorts" attend."

Malfoy shrugs one shoulder. "I've got other things on my mind." His voice is bitter, but he meets her gaze steadily. Hermione's face grows warm. All she can think of are his fingers, brushing against her, his lips on hers, the way he felt inside her.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, to distract herself as much as him.

His laugh is sharp. "I live here. Malfoy Manor is just over that hill."

All this time they've been trying to hide from Death Eaters, but ended up right under their noses. Hermione sighs. Well, they'll leave in the morning. "But why are you out here?" She persists.

"Leaving." He pulls his hood back up over his hair, glancing behind his shoulder. Hermione hopes that no one has followed him. She doesn't want to be caught, either.

"Can you? Leave?"

"I don't know. But I won't stay. Maybe I'm _weak_, maybe I'm a _coward,"_ he snarls, "but I won't watch the murders, the…feedings."

Hermione feels vaguely ill. "That doesn't make you a coward," she says.

"I don't need your sympathy, Granger." His voice isn't as sharp as his words. "And I need to leave before they find out I'm gone. I don't know what you're doing here, but you'd better leave, too."

"I know where you can hide." She doesn't know what makes her say it, but the words are out before she can decide against this very bad idea.

She sees the eagerness in his face, although he tries to hide it, but then his eyes narrow. "Potter and Weasley are there, aren't they?"

"Well, yes," she admits.

"No."

"But you need to hide."

"I don't need anything from Potter or Weasley," he snaps. "They wouldn't let me in, anyway."

They certainly wouldn't want him, especially with their tempers the way they have been lately, but Hermione is sure that if they could be convinced of Malfoy's sincerity, they wouldn't let him be captured, should he be pursued. But if Malfoy won't consider it- Then she realizes that she can, quite easily, recast all of the spells outside the tent.

"You don't have to go in," she says. "You don't have to see them. Just come with me." She turns before he can protest, and walks quickly back through the forest. When she hears his footsteps behind hers, she has a brief flare of panic. This could be a trap. He's behind her; he could curse her easily. She remembers that moment behind the rosebushes, three years ago, and it's all she can do to keep walking ahead. But she remembers other moments, more recent moments. They still aren't friends, but there's enough between them that she trusts him, at least, enough to walk in front of him.

She removes the spells, quickly, knowing that Harry and Ron might rush out, that she's taking a huge risk. But they don't appear, and she pushes him to the side of the tent and tells him to wait.

"But what if someone comes? I'm out in the open! They'll see me right away." His panicked voice rises in pitch. If the situation weren't so dangerous, she'd laugh, but she only rolls her eyes.

"Did you listen to any of the spells I cast? I'm sure you know at least some of them." Even in their current situation, she can't resist the urge to needle him. "No one can see us or hear us. Now be _quiet._"  
He mutters something about bossy know-it-alls, but she can't make out his words. It's an improvement, she supposes, stepping inside the tent.

Harry and Ron are instantly on their feet, demanding answers. She quells them with a look. "I'm tired of arguing. I took a walk. Nothing happened, it's completely quiet, and I'll take the first watch." They've already traded off the locket, she notices, and is glad that she won't have to deal with that tonight.

The boys exchange a glance, but they don't argue. She ignores them while they prepare for bed, and after the lights are extinguished she takes her blanket and steps outside again.

Malfoy is huddled as close to the side of the tent as he can without touching it. She holds out the blanket. "There's only one. We'll have to share. "  
"I don't need you to stay with me." He grabs the blanket. She notices that he's shivering and wonders how long he was outside.

"I have the first watch," she snaps back. "I'm not staying with you."

"If no one can see or hear you, why do you have to watch?"

"If someone does come, we have to be ready to leave." She sits on the ground, near Malfoy, but half-turned away.

A few minutes pass in silence.

"You're just a Mudblood, a filthy Mudblood," he says finally, and her cold hands curl into fists.

"How dare you," she begins, but he hasn't finished.

"So, why can't I get you out of my head?" He spits the words out, almost angrily. It's dark, and she can't see him, but she hears a rustle and imagines that he has turned his head to look in her direction.

"Do you think I want you in my head?" she asks. "It's easier to hate you, to wish you weren't here right now. But-" she stops, before she can say that sitting next to him, remembering his hands on her body, is making her want to close the distance between them, pull his head down to hers, wrap her legs around his waist.

There is more movement. She feels him fumbling against the ground, next to her, but then he finds her, and his hand closes awkwardly over hers. "I don't like you. I don't know you. But when I see you, I think of you naked on that desk, and I want you again, and again," he says, and her blood burns.

"I don't like you either," she says, isolating the statement that she can deal with. "But I don't hate you anymore."

"I suppose I don't hate you, either, Granger." His hand is cold, like hers, and she pulls it closer to her, resting her leg on top of their clasped hands.

"Did you shag Weasley?" He asks suddenly.

"No," she says, trying not to laugh. She has shagged _a_ Weasley, but not the one he's thinking of.

"Who, then?"

"That's none of your business, Malfoy," she says primly. She thinks she can almost hear his sneer, but then he snorts, and it is so uncharacteristic, so out of place in the dark and cold, that she laughs, too, even though she knows he was laughing at her.

Later, she can't remember who made the first move, but suddenly she's in his lap and his hands are on her waist and their lips are pressed together. He bites her lip and a small sound escapes from her mouth. Again, he bites her, harder this time, and she moans. Desire gathers deep within her and her hips twitch involuntarily, moving against him, and she feels him growing hard. She moves off him and tugs at his robes until he is free of them, and then strokes him with her fingers, feeling him. There are stars, and a sliver of moon, but she can't see much under the cover of trees.

If Malfoy could see her clearly, she doesn't know if she would do this, but the dark makes her bold, and she pushes him back, to lean onto his hands, and she bends over and drags her tongue down the length of him, eliciting a groan. She closes her mouth around his cock, moving her lips and tongue against him. He smells and tastes of sweat, but not unpleasantly so. Hermione doesn't know what she's doing, exactly, she's only found a few books on the subject, but he's breathing heavily, and she decides this is a good sign. His cock is hard and fills her mouth, presses against the back of her throat. She is struck by how completely he is in her power at this moment, and with this thought, she feels wetness spread between her own legs.

Spurred on by his ragged breathing and occasional groan, she gains confidence, bringing her hand up and wrapping it tightly around the base of his cock, moving her fingers up and down along him, sliding them along the wet tracks of her own saliva. His breath comes in gasps and her mouth is just getting tired when he sits up. She sits back, but he reaches for her, his hands brushing against her knees, traveling up to her thighs, then finding her waistband, catching at empty belt loops and prying at her clothes. Hermione reaches down to undo the button herself, and as soon as it's undone, Malfoy pulls her jeans down, hard. She is cold, and shivers, but then his hands are on the insides of her bare thighs, and the skin under his palms warms quickly.

He brings his head down and she feels his hair brush against her stomach. It tickles, but her body contracts, tingling with arousal.

"I don't think I smell very nice. I haven't showered-" she begins, but he cuts her off.

"You smell foul. I smell your dirty blood." Hermione doesn't know why these words send burning trails of desire up her spine, instead of the anger she should feel, but then Malfoy is pushing her legs roughly apart, and his face is between her legs, and she doesn't care anymore. His tongue is nothing like Ginny's. Their awkward exploration last summer, incited by boredom and a bottle of old wine, is not entirely clear in Hermione's memory, but she does remember the delicacy with which Ginny trailed her tongue across various parts of her body. It was slow and excruciatingly sweet, and all Hermione wanted to say was "faster," and "harder."

Malfoy doesn't have a technique, exactly, but he makes up for this lack with force, and she inhales sharply as he plunges his tongue into her. Her squeak of a gasp seems to encourage him and he moves his tongue inside her. His fingers brush against her, pressing and rubbing and then he switches, his fingers inside her and his tongue licking up to the spot at the top where she is most sensitive. She doesn't know how many fingers he has inside her at first, but she can tell when he pushes another in, and then another. She feels stretched, and it hurts, a little, but she moves into the pain and then there is only the exquisite feeling of being filled. His tongue flicks at her and swirls around her as his fingers drive into her, and she shivers and shudders and smacks uselessly at the ground and finally she feels something she hasn't felt in a long time, so long, almost, that she doesn't recognize it when it begins, the warmth building between her legs and rising and then spreading and she spits out, "Don't stop, Malfoy, don't bloody stop," and it doesn't occur to her that he might stop, just to be cruel. But he doesn't and she comes, her legs quivering, her hips bucking and pressing her sex harder against his mouth. He takes his fingers out of her and grabs her hips, holding her, shoving his tongue back inside her.

"How do I taste?" She asks, her voice rough from gasping.

"Like mud." It was an answer she half-expected, but he catches her face in his hands and kisses her, and there is nothing cruel in his mouth moving against her own. She tastes herself, salty, with a metallic tang, on his tongue.

She climbs back onto his lap, lowering herself onto him. He pushes his hips up against her, thrusting farther up into her. Hermione lets out her breath in a moan and moves with him, riding him, hard, her hands holding on to his shoulders. His hands spread across her arse, fingers pressing into her skin. It doesn't take long for him to come. He bites her neck, and her earlobe, and then groans against her ear, thrusting up as her arse slaps down onto his thighs one last time. He holds her there and moves shallowly a few more times, panting. She is exhausted and leans her head on his shoulder without thinking, but he does nothing more than run his fingers through her hair, which is somewhat tangled, and then curl his arm around her waist, brushing his fingers awkwardly and lightly along her side.

When they start to shiver, she gets up and puts her clothes back on. Malfoy does the same, and then they huddle under the blanket, without speaking. But his hand grips hers through the hours of the night, and she doesn't complain when her fingers begin to lose feeling.

She goes back into the tent, once, to check on Harry and Ron. Harry stirs, and she tells him that she isn't tired, that she'll keep watching. He mumbles something and rolls over without ever really waking up.

When pale light begins to spread from the edges of the sky, she stands on shaky legs. Malfoy stirs as her foot brushes against the blanket, and he opens his eyes.

"It's dawn," she tells him. "They'll wake up soon."

He nods. "Granger-"

She shakes her head. "Not now. Nothing now."

"All right." He stands, bunching the blanket up and handing it back to her. Hermione stares at him, studying his face, trying to decide what she sees in his eyes. They look old and tired, and she suddenly feels very sad.


	5. Year 8

Author's Note: This thing took forever, but I'm finally done. It kind of got away from me, but I am really pleased with the way it turned out. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

Rated M for sexual content.

For Harmonic Friction.

* * *

Year 8

Hermione settles back onto the padded bench, resting her forehead against the window and closing her eyes as the train steams and begins to slowly pull away from the station. There had been agonizing stretches over the long summer when she had not been entirely sure she'd be on the train September 1, but she is on the train, now, on her way back to Hogwarts. This year will be different, without Harry and Ron. She'll be alone, but she doesn't particularly mind that. She 'd like some peace. To her parents' dismay, she'd refused the Head Girl badge. (If Dumbledore had still been alive, still been Headmaster, she thinks he'd have known why.)

Ginny watches Hermione with interested eyes. For the first time in years, Hermione hasn't gone to the Burrow over summer holidays. Ron and Harry insisted on coming with her to find her parents, but she'd had to talk to Ron afterwards. It had been hard to tell him that she didn't feel the same way about him that he felt about her. She hadn't mentioned Malfoy, of course. Hermione wonders what Ron has told Ginny, if he's said anything.  
Luna's expression is dreamy, as usual, but her blue eyes flicker back and forth over Hermione, who is uncomfortably reminded of her perception.

"I'll be right back," Hermione says. Even with her eyes averted, Luna's blue eyes are too piercing. It's impossible, but it almost seems like she knows Hermione's secret. There is another hour or so left before they will arrive at Hogwarts, and although Hermione isn't sure what she wants to do with the time, she can't stay in the compartment with the others any longer.

From patrolling the corridor as a prefect, Hermione knows which compartments usually hold Slytherins, and as she paces the familiar route, stepping around the prefects who blink at her with wide eyes, she tells herself she isn't looking for Malfoy, but she is still disappointed when he is in none of the rooms she passes. Although she'd tried to find out, through oblique questioning and careful study of news clippings, what he and his family had been doing, she couldn't discover anything that told her whether or not he'd be returning to Hogwarts.

But then she turns the corner and notices the last two compartments. The first is empty, but Malfoy sits in the second, alone, his chin in his hand as he peers out the window. She stares at the back of his head, wondering what he's thinking about. Had he thought about her since he'd seen her last? It had been hard to face Harry and Ron that morning, hard to hold herself together over the following days, hard to keep still and quiet at night while she remembered his fingers and mouth and just how he'd held her.

Then she'd seen him again when they'd been captured, and he hadn't identified them, although he knew, she _knew_ that he knew it was them. He hadn't met her eyes. _Why did you go back?_ She wanted to demand. _Did they catch you, or did you go back on your own?_ Had he heard her scream, when Bellatrix had tortured her? Had he cared? Maybe they were nothing to each other, but still there had been something between them.

But perhaps the loyalty he felt for his family had won out. Whether he had gone back on his own or not, he had stayed, and continued fighting, only conceding after the Room of Requirement, when Crabbe had died. She had seen his hollow, haunted face, although he had barely seemed to notice her. If he still held onto his old beliefs, though, why is he sitting here alone? Hermione isn't sure she's brave enough to find out.

She leans back against the wall, sighing. Brave enough to chase down Horcruxes, withstand torture at the hands of Death Eaters, ride a dragon, tell the boy who liked her that she couldn't be with him, to find her parents and restore their memories and admit what she'd done, but not brave enough to face Malfoy? What's wrong with her? Isn't she supposed to be a Gryffindor?

Her heart is pounding, so hard that it almost hurts, and she presses her cold hands to her chest. She knows that she is going to knock on the door, open it, step inside, can see herself doing so in her head. _Why isn't there a book about this? _She turns back to look in the window once more and jumps back. Malfoy is looking out at her. His eyes widen when he sees her, and he stands, but she is frozen, unable to decide whether she should run back to her compartment or put her hand to the door and push it open. Then one corner of his mouth, so very slightly that it takes her several seconds to decide if she has really seen it, turns up, and the other follows. He is smiling, not sneering, and it looks awkward on his face, but she pushes the door open and takes one step, then another, and then his hands are on her shoulders, pushing her down onto the seat. He kneels between her legs and pulls her head to his and kisses her, hard, so hard that she feels her lip, still slightly chapped from sunburn, crack and begin to bleed, but she doesn't care. His hands are in her hair, around her neck, in her shirt, moving up to her chest to cover her breasts and attempt to work them out of her bra. She pulls away long enough to say "Here?" and he points his wand at the door, then at the windows.

"The compartment looks empty now, and no one will be able to come in." His hands go to her knees and begin to slide up underneath her skirt. She reaches to his waist and pulls him up, closer to her, and unfastens his trousers, then stands up and pushes him down onto the seat next to her. Standing in front of him, she holds his gaze, reaching below her skirt, working her knickers down her legs slowly, lowering one side first, then the other, then wriggling her hips just enough to knock them below her ankles. His face is blank of expression, but she can see the interest in his eyes, and that is enough. Hermione takes a step forward and lifts her skirt just enough to get it out of the way, then kneels over him, reaching down to work his cock into her. They sigh at almost the same time, which makes her laugh and bring her body down on his, hard.

She holds on to his shoulders as she moves, and Malfoy reaches up to catch her wrists, holding them tightly. His fingers are cool, and she likes the way they circle her wrist completely. Hermione is surprised by how normal it feels, to be on top of Malfoy, to have him inside her, and then tells herself not to think about it. After a few minutes, Malfoy stands without warning, picking her up and setting her on the back of the bench. She is flat against the wall and her voice rushes out of her as he holds her there, fucking her harder. Her lips move along his neck, kissing, biting when he thrusts particularly hard, and he pants against her ear. The train jolts, and she almost falls, but his hand steadies her and then he braces his hands on her waist and slams into her, hard, four times, and then he shudders and thrusts once more and then slumps against her, and she is pleased that she, Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born, has made Malfoy come for the third time.

They clean up, using their wands, and Hermione is quietly impressed, as she always is, by magic. Malfoy smirks at her and she has the uncomfortable feeling that he knows what she's thinking. She reaches for her discarded knickers but he grabs her wrist and asks, "What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed. We'll arrive soon."

"Not that soon," he says, and he kneels down in front of her. His fingers trail up her thighs and brush against her, and then he pulls her hips toward his face and kisses up from the inside of her thigh. His tongue is firm and presses against her, seeking the right place, and then he finds it and drags his tongue across, and she cries out and her fingers clutch in his hair. He grabs her and holds her against him as her body twitches into his face. She thinks that he is better at this than he was before, and she wonders who else he's done this with, but then he pulls his mouth back and brings his fingers up to rub against her where his tongue just was, and his eyes, very bright in the rare afternoon sun pouring in from the window, are intent on her face. She squirms on the seat as he moves his fingers faster, but when she reaches down to move them into a better position, he pulls his hand back.

"You do it."

"What?!" Her face is warm.

"I want to watch you."

She thinks he must be joking, but there is nothing in his face that says so, and she supposes she might as well. After all, they've just shagged on the train, so how much worse could getting herself off be? So she spreads her legs further apart and leans back, but she doesn't need to think of Malfoy because he's right there in front of her, and she's already close but then he thrusts his fingers inside her, because he can tell, somehow, that she's nearly there, and then she comes, her muscles tightening over his fingers, and his sharp exhale tells her that it is something he likes to feel.

This time he lets her get dressed, but she doesn't want to leave just yet. The train must be almost to Hogwarts, and Hermione should go back to her compartment, but there are too many things unsaid. There isn't nearly enough time to say them, but still, she's reluctant to leave this again. They will see each other again, soon, and often, and somehow it is different from any of the other times they have been together.

"Do you- Will we-" The question first in her mind is, _"What am I to you, now? Still a Mudblood? Or just Granger?"_

He laughs. "At a loss for words, Granger? That's rare." It's slightly removed from his usual sneering drawl. He's trying to tease her, and her first impulse is to swat at him with a book. But he isn't Ron, and they aren't really friends. She doesn't know how to act around him, unless their clothes are off.  
She wants to do this again but doesn't want to tell him that. "Are things back to the way they were before?"

He sighs. "I'm not going to call you a Mudblood and try to curse you in the halls. But don't expect me to start advocating equality and fairness, either." He looks at her. "I suppose not all Muggles are foul and backward creatures."

It irritates her that she can't tell if he's trying to make a joke. It's in poor taste, if it is one, so she ignores it.

The train jolts, and she leaves. Ginny and Luna look at her curiously, and she is grateful for her wild hair. What's another rumple in the mess of it? She pulls it back into a thick braid and follows the others to the carriages.

Except for brief glimpses in the dining hall, she doesn't see Malfoy again until NEWT Potions on Friday. She is nearly late, and when she enters the room, there are three empty seats. Two of them are at the same table, and she moves toward it, but Professor Slughorn stops her.

"Miss Granger, take a seat next to Mr. Malfoy, if you don't mind. This term I'll be requiring you to work in pairs."

It's too perfect, and she wonders briefly if Malfoy has planned it as she sits. He inclines his head briefly, his eyes lingering over her chest in an obvious manner, and she fights a smile.

Then she turns her to attention to Professor Slughorn, who is explaining that they will have to research and prepare a difficult potion on their own, keeping track of their mistakes.

"And you will make mistakes!" He promises jovially. "You'll be researching in the Restricted Section and making some of the trickiest potions out there. Potion-making is a finicky task, and if you want to be successful, you need experience working with the more dangerous ingredients."

Hermione notices Malfoy sits forward in his seat and remembers that he has always seemed to enjoy Potions class. He's never gotten higher marks than she has, but he's consistently second. She thinks, though, that his potions are probably better than hers.

"Now, you'll be able to research together, but the final potion, after you've worked out the right way to prepare it, will have to be made individually," Professor Slughorn continues, and Hermione forgets about Malfoy briefly as she takes furious notes while she listens.

When class is over, Malfoy is slow to pack up his things. Once the room is empty of students, he leans across the table toward her. "My potion will be better than yours," he says in a low voice. His smirk is familiar and Hermione feels briefly out of place. Where are Harry and Ron? Why is she with Malfoy? Then everything snaps back into focus and she bristles, although she had just been thinking that exact thing.

"And why would you think that?"

"Maybe you have higher marks, but I'm better at making potions."

"Harry was better than you, sixth year," Hermione reminds him, and although she never condoned the Half-Blood Prince's book, it feels almost right to needle Malfoy.

But his face darkens and she regrets her words, almost. "How about a wager, Granger?"

"What? No."

But he continues as if he hasn't heard. "If I make the better potion, I can choose our," he raises an eyebrow, "activities for an evening."

Hermione snorts. "And I suppose if I win, I get to choose?"

"Of course. But I'll win."

"What makes you think there will be any further activities?" She sniffs, closing her book and rolling up her scroll neatly.

"You won't be able to stay away, Granger." He leers at her, and she laughs in spite of herself.

"Perhaps it's you who won't be able to resist, Malfoy." She stuffs her books into her bag and leaves, not looking back. But she's smiling.

As it turns out, neither of them can resist. Hermione turns over and over in her bed, but she can't sleep. Crookshanks is too warm at her feet, and it's difficult to sleep, knowing Malfoy is just a few staircases and a dungeon away, wanting to feel his breath against her neck, his hands on her waist. Eventually she climbs out of bed, without any clear idea of what she's doing. Harry isn't here with his Invisibility Cloak, so she puts a hand to her stomach as she climbs out of the portrait hole. "I'm ill," she lies recklessly. "Going to the infirmary."

It isn't terribly late yet, and the castle is more relaxed after the war, so the portrait says only, "Take care." Hermione is already down the hall.

She remembers vaguely the area of the Slytherin dormitories, but once she's nearby, she stops. What is she supposed to do, knock on the door and ask for Malfoy? Hermione hears footsteps and freezes, ducking back into the shadowy portion of the hall. But it's Malfoy who comes around the corner. She laughs. This situation is too familiar. He notices her, and a smug expression crosses his face. She's a little embarrassed, but doesn't look away.  
"Looking for me?"

"Well, weren't you looking for me?" She knows he'll never admit it, and he doesn't, but he pushes her back against the wall and, holding her face in his hands, kisses her roughly. He kisses as if he's fighting, hard, with no surrender. But she doesn't dislike it. When he shoves his hand between her legs, she sucks in her breath, but he doesn't move it further, and after a long minute or three, when her tongue is protesting and her back growing cold, he steps back, leaving her against the wall, legs trembling.

"Goodnight, Granger," he says. "Let's meet in the library tomorrow to work on our potions assignment." He turns and walks away.

"Goodnight," she calls, just before he turns the corner, torn between irritation at his high-handedness and amusement, also at his high-handedness.

The next day is Saturday. She catches Malfoy looking at her over breakfast, but she keeps her eyes on her plate, although she does notice that he is sitting alone, looking off in the distance rather than talking to his housemates. Meals are quieter without Harry and Ron. She sits with Ginny and Neville, who has returned to finish his seventh year after the upheaval of the one before. "We didn't really learn much last year," he told her earlier in the week, something that surprised her not at all. Ginny teases Neville over her sausages, and Hermione watches them. Suddenly she misses Harry and Ron furiously, and guilt begins to spread through her stomach. She pokes at her food, but her appetite is gone, and she leaves the room, and then the castle.

Outside, her head is clearer, but she still feels sick. What would Harry and Ron think if they knew about what she's done with Malfoy? It's none of their business, exactly, but she still feels like she's betrayed them. She can pretend to herself that he might be different, changed, that how he is with her is nothing like how he used to be, but really, she doesn't exactly know that. They've only been alone together a handful of times, and they haven't exactly spent much time talking. But that's part of the appeal, she thinks. He's intelligent, attractive, and they are drawn to each other, for some reason. She doesn't want to think much more about it.

Instead she pulls out some parchment, sits on the grass under a tree, and begins a long letter. She addresses it to both Harry and Ron, mentions everything about school, how her parents took the removal of the Memory Charm (at first, not well, but eventually they accepted that she had only been trying to protect them), how much she misses both of them, and then, finally, that she has to complete a Potions assignment with Malfoy. She adds that he has been polite to her. "Perhaps he's learned something, after the war," she finishes, intentionally sharp.

On her way to the Owlery, she sees him crossing the hall. His hands are in his pockets, and his face is thoughtful. Something seems off about him, but then she realizes that it's only his solitude. It's odd, still, to see him without Crabbe and Goyle, but he doesn't seem to mind being alone. She waits for him to pass before she continues on her way.

That evening she's studying in the library when someone taps her shoulder with a roll of parchment. She doesn't look up from her book. "What is it, Malfoy?"

"I'm touched. How did you know it was me?"

"No one else bothers me while I'm studying," she retorts. He sits across from her and shoves across the table the note from Professor Slughorn that will allow them access to the Restricted Section.

"You want to work on it already?"

"I know you're used to working with layabouts, but some of us like to start our assignments on time," he drawls, and she rolls her eyes, but she can't defend Ron and Harry, as she spent the last several years complaining about their procrastination.

"Come on, then." She stands and packs up her Arithmancy and Ancient Rune textbooks. They show their note to Madame Pince, who scrutinizes it carefully before waving them over with less than her usual glare. Perhaps she realizes that if they haven't damaged a book yet, they probably won't now.

The Restricted Section is very quiet, almost as if it's part of another world. The sounds from the rest of the library are muffled, and they browse the books in the Potions section in near-silence. They each find one that seems promising, and after a brief whispered argument over whose book will yield the better potion, which neither of them win, they check out both books. Madame Pince narrows her eyes as she stamps the books, but says nothing. They have a note, after all. Hermione wonders if Most Potente Potions would be half as gruesome as it was in the second year, after all the things she's seen.

Madame Pince steps into the back room when she's finished checking out their books. Hermione moves toward the door, thinking they're finished, but Malfoy tugs her sleeve. When she turns, he jerks his head back toward the Restricted Section.

"What?" she hisses.

He only mouths back "Now," so she darts a glance back at Madame Pince, but the librarian is still looking away from them, and so she follows Malfoy breathlessly back into the Restricted Section.  
"Come here," he says, leading her all the way to the back.

"But the library's closing," she protests.

"I know." He keeps walking.

"Malfoy! We could get into trouble! We're not supposed to be back here."

"And that's why she won't look for us." He smirks and leans against the back wall. "Just wait."

"What are we waiting for?" She stands next to him, noticing that he's placed himself so that a bookshelf blocks them from a cursory glance down the stacks.

He doesn't answer, and after a few minutes the lights flicker and then dim. Hermione waits, silently, somewhat bored. She wants to take out the Potions book and start looking through it, but when she reaches for her bag, Malfoy holds up his hand. She sighs in annoyance but leans back against the wall. Why are they here? At least when she snuck around with Harry and Ron, they usually had a good reason for breaking the rules. Hermione doesn't approve of rule-breaking on principle.

When the library is completely dark, Malfoy says "Lumos," in a low voice. Hermione pulls out her own wand and lights it silently, smirking. She's beginning to have an idea of why they're here, and is slightly irritated with herself for not catching on sooner.

Malfoy takes a step toward her, taking her hands in his. It's a surprisingly intimate gesture, but his words, "Ever shagged in a library, Granger?" are more like him.

"Have you?" She counters. Of course she hasn't.

He puts his hands on her waist, and she expects him to move them higher, or lower, but he leaves them, remaining still, until she begins to fidget. She reaches out but he backs away, just a step, enough that she can't grab him.

"What do you want, Granger?" He asks, his eyes dragging over her body.

Her face is warm, but she stares right back. "You," she says, her voice low.

"I know you want _me_," he says, "but what do you want me to do?"

She squirms as his hands slide down her thighs, near the hem of her skirt. He brings them back up, pushing her skirt higher as he does.

"I'm waiting, Granger," he says, leaning in to kiss her. His mouth is cool on hers. He moves his lips to her neck and bites her, lightly, and she trembles into him, turning her head slightly to whisper in his ear.

"I want you to use your tongue."

"Use it here?" He licks her neck.

"Not there," she breathes.

He pushes her shirt up and pulls the strap of her bra off her shoulder, freeing one breast and tracing his tongue around her nipple. "Here?"

She has to collect enough breath to answer, but when she can speak, she takes his hand and puts it between her legs. "Here," she tells him.

There is a table, off to the side, and he picks her up and sets her on it, pushing her legs apart and yanking her knickers down her legs. He buries his face in her, and his tongue seems more familiar with her body. She moans and sighs and wriggles on the table, wrapping her legs around his head and kicking her feet lightly against his back when it feel so good that she can't stand it, can't sit still.

"Shh," he tells her, more than once, when she's forgotten that they're in a library. Her breathing grows shallower, and she knows she's going to come soon. She moves against his mouth but then he pulls back and slides one finger, just one, into her, and she's about to protest, tell him not to stop, but then, without warning, he pushes more fingers into her, all of them, maybe. Completely forgetting herself, she cries out and he shushes her, bringing his free hand up to cover her mouth. She glares at him, but he doesn't move, only presses his hand against her lips harder. He's moving, inside her, and it only takes seconds before something explodes inside her. She shudders and gasps into Malfoy's hand, but she can't cry out, so she instead bites his finger, which has slipped further into her mouth. He exhales sharply and stands back, pulling off his trousers and helping her down from the table. They move to the floor: she sits on him and he fucks her, letting her move above him but then suddenly thrusting up into her, hard. She laughs and curls her hands around his neck, brushes her fingers across the sharpness of his shoulder blades through his shirt.

She's surprised when he speaks. "What would Potter and Weasley think about this?"

"What would your family think about this?" She counters.

He moves her off him and sets her on the floor, climbing over her and sliding easily back into her. She wraps her legs around his back again and drags her nails across his back. He feels good inside her, so good that the things that are worrying her, her guilt and the persistent thought _What will Harry and Ron think?_ are driven from her head. He grunts and his breathing quickens and she holds on to his hips as he comes. He slumps against her and she reaches up to brush her fingers through his hair, surprised but pleased at how natural his head feels against her chest.

"You don't want to know what my family would think," he says finally.

"I don't want to know what Harry and Ron would think," she admits.

"I'm still trying to decide what I think," he says. "I try not to think about this." His hands are warm on her shoulders. "I want this year. But after that, I don't know what there is."

"I don't know either," Hermione says. For once, she realizes, there is something that she doesn't want to know.

Over the next few weeks, when she's not working on her other assignments, they meet in the library or in the Potions classroom. They spend most of their time bickering over the best way to prepare the ingredients, but Hermione finds herself enjoying it. They have to work together, so she doesn't have to worry about what people will think.

By Halloween, they've begun the potion twice and failed both times. They've met at night three more times, making liberal use of the Potions classroom for things other than Potions. Hermione is surprised they haven't been caught.

One afternoon after class, Malfoy tells her, "Meet me in the Slytherin corridor tonight."

She agrees without much thought. After everyone is in bed, she climbs out of hers.

"Are you meeting Malfoy?"

It's Ginny's voice, and Hermione jumps. She is so surprised that she blurts out "Yes" before she can stop herself.

"He's different, isn't he? He acts differently, now." Ginny says thoughtfully.

"He is," she agrees. "But please, don't tell Ron or Harry."

"I won't." Ginny promises. "But you'd better tell me everything tomorrow."

Hermione smiles, although she knows Ginny can't see it. "I will."

Malfoy is waiting for her in the hall. "Come on," he says, and turns.

"Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer, but when they stop outside the Slytherin dorms, she is startled.

"No one is in the common room. Everyone's asleep. There's an empty room in the back of the dormitory, and if you're quiet, we can sneak into it."

They will be together, in a bed. Hermione likes the idea of this, and so she follows Malfoy. He thrusts a cloak at her. "Put this on. Cover your hair." She does.

He has her wait in the hall while he checks the common room. When she hears footsteps, she turns, thinking it's him, but it's Professor Slughorn. They look at each other for several seconds, her heart sinking further into her chest with each _tick_ of her heartbeat. She's done it, now. She'll be expelled.

"Why, Miss Granger! Whatever are you doing here?"

There is no possible excuse she can offer. "I-I, er,"

But then he winks at her. "Working on your Potions assignment, I imagine? I admire your dedication, Granger… It's rather late. But I suppose you're still young and don't need nearly as much sleep…" He looks at her carefully. "The war has changed many things." His voice is soft as he trails off.

Malfoy comes back into the room and stops, staring, his mouth open. Professor Slughorn turns to him, nodding at Hermione. "Out of bed so late, Mr. Malfoy? You must have forgotten something down in the common room, correct? Why don't you get it, quickly, and make your way back upstairs." Then he shuffles out of the room, humming softly.

Hermione's hands are cold with relief. She laughs behind her hands as Malfoy beckons her up the stairs.  
The room is cold, but he pulls her to the bed, and he is warm beside her. It's the same as always, but different, too. His arms fit around her more easily, and they have more room to explore each other's bodies. He pulls her close to him as he thrusts harder and harder. She can feel him in every inch of her body. "Malfoy," she says quietly, but it doesn't sound right any more. "Draco," she tries again.

He moans, long and shuddering, and breathes hard into her hair. She can barely hear when he says "Hermione," but he does. Her hands hold his face, and she brings her face up to kiss him.

She wakes up before he does. His face is smooth and relaxed. There is a red mark on his neck from where she bit him, and she smiles, pressing a finger to it. He'll probably charm it away, but she likes that it's there. Hermione wonders what he will think when he wakes up. They've crossed some invisible line, now. Will he regret it? She thinks that she doesn't.

Carefully, so she doesn't wake him, she pushes the blankets back and sits up, putting first one foot on the floor, then the other. She's about to stand when she hears movement and feels a hand on her arm.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to my room. Ginny saw me leave. I should get back before everyone wakes up."

"Potions later?" He asks.

"Of course. I have to beat you, don't I?" She says, grinning.

"You won't," he insists.

"We'll see." She gathers her clothes. He watches her dress, and she lingers, putting each article of clothing on slowly.

"Next time, take them off like that," he suggests.

"You can only tell me what to do if you win," she reminds him. Impulsively, she leans over the bed and kisses his cheek, but he turns his head so that their lips meet and kisses her back.

She's at the door when he speaks again. "It'll never work, Hermione."

"I know," she agrees, knowing he isn't thinking of their potion. Her hand on the knob, she looks back at him. He's sitting up in bed now, looking at her. She imagines there is regret in his eyes. "But we have this year." She leaves, and as she walks down the hall back to Gryffindor tower, she does not think of next year, or the next, but of the way her name sounds when he says it.


End file.
